


Here, underneath these trees

by captainhurricane



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Dalish Elf!Keith, Dragon Age!AU, Gen, Pre-Slash, farmer!Shiro
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-06
Updated: 2018-04-06
Packaged: 2019-04-19 04:57:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14229750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainhurricane/pseuds/captainhurricane
Summary: Shiro is a farmboy off to find the elves. The elves find him first.





	Here, underneath these trees

As someone who has lived in a farm, right in the middle of the Kocari Wilds, Shiro really should know better than to try to track down a Dalish clan on his own. But there is no one else: Shiro’s mother had succumbed to disease some years earlier, Shiro’s father had been dragged away by werewolves and the farm had been left to Shiro. At least he knows how to defend himself against wild beasts that roam the lands and knows how much food he will need to take with him for the one-day trip. 

At least he knows how to respect the land around him and actually survive in it. Tracking down a Dalish clan, however, is foolish and he knows it. The clans are notoriously elusive and rarely like humans, no matter how nice they are. 

But Shiro needs to do this. There is something killing his cattle, something that had chased even his trusted helper off into the wilds, so that Shiro had only ended up finding the poor fellow’s body. That something had even attacked his dog Sparkle and left her with a deep scar on her face. Not that it had managed to scare her off, no, because the Mabari are scared of nothing. So Shiro is in dire need of help that his fellow farmers - living too far from him anyway - can’t give. There is no one who knows the wilds and the woods better than the Dalish.

And Shiro has heard through the grapevine that a clan has settled closeby. 

His horse hadn’t gotten the memo of surviving and being at peace with the land, however. Old Gal isn’t used to getting ridden and definitely isn’t used to going so fast as she’s neighing and tossing her head irritably when Shiro finally takes a break in his trip, tying her to a tree. 

“Sssh, ssh,” Shiro says and pats her neck. There should only be wolves around here, nothing that Old Gal isn’t used to. 

Even the werewolf-incident had been a one-off because Shiro had never seen them again, probably thanks to the green-tipped arrows he had found lodged into the trees surrounding his farmlands. 

Arrows that he only knows to be Dalish from his father’s teachings and all of his father’s notes that he had left behind. It’s a gamble, sure, but Shiro is always going to have hope in his heart that the Dalish will see that he needs help and will help. Shiro has never strayed far from his own farm and likes living in his solitude. He always gives thanks to the woods and the wilds for the game it gives him and never makes fires where they are not supposed to be

Still Shiro is tense as he mounts Old Gal again and gets on with it, whistling so that Sparkle follows. Her heavy footsteps make the ground quiver, her stumpy tail desperate to wag. Shiro grins down at her. 

“Smell anything weird, sweetheart?” She yaps and hops ahead. Shiro presses his heels against Old Gal’s sides and dutifully she trots ahead. She tosses her head once and lets out a whinny, sidestepping before trotting ahead again. 

Shiro isn’t too worried because Sparkle isn’t acting anything unlike her usual self. And Old Gal has gotten a little paranoid in her old days. Soon Shiro will have to go on a look for a new horse anyway and let Old Gal enjoy her retirement. But after this. After he’s convinced the notoriously human-hating forest elves to be his friends.

Shiro sighs. “We’ll manage, right, girl?” He pats his horse’s neck. She lets out a nicker in response.

Onward they go, under quietly whispering trees and keeping their ears open for any shadows that shouldn’t be there. Shiro stops Old Gal a few times to check on his map, to where he had marked the clan’s possible route and stop points. Then again, you never knew if the clan stayed for a few days or as long as a few weeks. They are always on the move, always one with the forest, always giving and receiving. Except when running into humans.

Shiro isn’t particularly surprised when he finds himself surrounded. The elves appear as silently as the shadows at Shiro’s feet: there are five of them, at least, most likely more and all have their faces hidden beneath shadows and masks and most importantly, the arrows pointing straight at Shiro and his little entourage. 

“Down, Sparkle,” Shiro whispers. The Mabari whimpers but sits down anyway. Shiro puts his own hands up. “I- uh-” 

“Shemlen,” speaks one of the elves. It’s difficult to tell who, as the arrows pointed at Shiro take all of his focus.

“Hello,” says Shiro. “I come in peace. I swear.” They weren’t supposed to be here. But then again, Shiro doesn’t know enough of the Dalish to know just how wide their hunters go, protecting the aravels, their elders, their children from outsiders.

Because these are the hunters: as sharp and beautiful as the woods surrounding them. 

“You are not welcome here,” speaks yet another elf. Some have their hoods on, some do not. Their pointy ears peek from beneath messes of black or silver or brown hair. Shiro can’t stop looking. 

“Look, guys, I realize that. But I really, really need help. Is there any way you could, uh, take me to your leader?” Shiro takes of almost outright begging, gazing from one wiry elf to another. They’re pointing dangerously pointy arrows at him, certainly, but there is such wild beauty in them that Shiro’s heart races out of more than just a sense of danger. 

Some of the elves press closer  to each other and whisper in their melodic language. 

Mostly all keep their bows and arrows aimed at Shiro whose arms are still up. 

“Uh, I mean, the Keeper, right? Look, I’m from the farm just right there and there’s been some weirdness happening. I think you guys helped me before.”

His heart stutters when the light illuminates the elves and their eyes: they gleam as brightly as a cat’s eyes. 

One of them lowers their bow and tugs down the fabric covering their mouth. The hood is lowered to reveal a mane of black hair that the elf shakes. 

Shiro blushes.

The elf smirks. “I think I recognize you, farmer boy. You may lower your bows, friends.”

“Just because you are the Keeper’s favourite, Keithel,” murmurs one another elf but lowers the bow. 

Shiro slowly lowers his hands. “A-ah, thank you?” He stares at the elf who stares back. His - his, yes? - eyes look more purple now that Shiro can take a proper look at them. The tattoos on this particular elf’s face remind Shiro of a tree, with its roots and branches reaching all over the world. 

“Look at him, all speechless at the face of our might,” the elf says. His smirk is cocky enough to make Shiro’s knees feel a little weak. “Get down from your horse, shemlen. Tell your dog to stand down. I think we are not the enemy. And I think our Keeper will have words to share with you.” He waits until Shiro has dismounted. “Your horse will be fed.” Those purple eyes burn a little harder as they shoot a glare at the other elves. Shiro hears some disgruntled murmuring but pats Old Gal anyway and whistles for Sparkle to follow. 

Shiro steps closer to this elf, Keithel, who pulls out a long, black strip of fabric from his belt. “You can’t see where we are going, tall shemlen.” Keithel steps closer. He’s still smirking. Shiro is starting to sweat under his leathers. He faintly hears a buzzing noise that might be the other elves murmuring among themselves or just Shiro’s brain shutting down because this unbearably pretty elf is staring up at him, head tilted, wind softly brushing long black strands. 

“Oh,” says Shiro as Keithel gets up on his tiptoes and swiftly ties the fabric around Shiro’s head, effectively blocking his sight. 

“Don’t you worry, boy, it will all be fine,” Keithel purrs. Shiro’s hand is taken and then tugged so he walks, unseeing, suddenly as helpless as a toddler. 

“Don’t try to see anything or memorize anything,” Keithel says sweetly. “Or  we will be forced to kill you.” 

“Of course. I’m here for your help,” Shiro says. He doesn’t dare to squeeze Keithel’s hand. At least the elf had grabbed the one not made of wood and metal: this way Shiro can feel better how strong the elf’s grip is. 

“Like I said, the Keeper will have words with you. If you are truly who you say you are, she will know what to do.” 

“I am who I say I am,” Shiro huffs. “I do not think I know your Keeper.” The hand that has grabbed his tug again.

“Silence now, boy.” Keithel laughs and Shiro is glad for the blindfold: if he finds the elf beautiful as he is, smirking at him, then what would the sight of his laughing face do? Shiro feels Sparkle brush against his leg and hears her panting loudly. Shiro whispers a ‘good girl, good girl,’ to her and she yaps. Keithel doesn’t speak again, instead makes Shiro turn right, then left, then walk onward, then hop over a fallen branch, then crawl under a fallen tree, then turn right and then turn left and left and onward again. Shiro’s head spins. Never does Keithel’s hand leave his, it instead grips as tight as iron. Despite the elf’s slenderness, Shiro gets the feeling that he could toss Shiro as easily as Shiro could toss him. 

That certainly does quirky little things to Shiro’s insides. 

“Your face is quite red, boy,” Keithel says once they finally stop. A cool, bare palm is pressed against Shiro’s cheek. The blindfold is pulled off so Shiro once more gets to see those mesmerizing purple eyes. 

“Why do you keep calling me boy?” Shiro blinks. But doesn’t look away. 

“Who knows how old you humans are,” Keithel huffs and lowers his hand. There is a smile dancing on his lips. This close, his features are as sharp as elf-features always are, his wayward black strands tucked behind his ears. 

“Old enough to keep my own farm,” Shiro says. “I can’t be younger than you, can I?” 

Keithel winks. “Who knows how old we elves are, right?” 

Shiro blushes.

“Stop flirting with the shemlen, you pointy little-” whatever the elf says is lost to Shiro who doesn’t know the language at all, but it makes Keithel roll his eyes. “Insulting both me and the human in the same sentence? You have gotten rather dull in your old, unmated age, friend.” 

Shiro rubs his cheek and glances around them. Keithel is making a face at another elf who’s sitting by the fire. That elf is making faces right back at him. Keithel then snorts and pats Shiro’s bicep. 

“Our Keeper is probably taking her usual walk just down there, by the river. If she recognizes you, good. If she doesn’t, then… just know you are being watched.” 

“I know, I know.” Shiro pats Sparkle’s head. “Come on, girl.” 

  
Keithel steps back, arms crossed. His smile still lingers. Shiro bites his lip. “Thanks. You know. For not shooting me full of holes.” 

“Do not thank me. That could still happen,” Keithel says sweetly. His eyes look darker, more dangerous.

A sweet little thrill runs up and down Shiro’s spine. “I  will keep that in mind.” So he does as he leads Sparkle towards where Keithel has pointed.  Shiro looks back only once: Keithel is still watching him, head tilted, his position relaxed. Shiro’s neck feels hot. 


End file.
